Month: July 2017

As a writer, unless I have a pressing deadline or project – or become spontaneously inspired – I don't have much of a routine. I know. I'm working on changing that.

I read this book that revolutionized my writing approach. Free writing and pomodoro timing was a brand new concept to me that I quickly worked into my writing habits. Free writing made the first chapter of my book possible, as I had all these stories and research to sort through – I was able to organize and write simultaneously.

Pomodoro time was essential to my technical writing course with all the reading and essays to write. It gave me a sharper focus, running against the clock knowing I could take a break soon. Without these skills, I would be struggling.

My sitting room is where my iMac lives and all of my writing takes place there. It's decorated in minimalistic Ikea furniture and stays uncluttered. The walls are cyan, my favorite color, and it has a calming effect on me. Pictures of my ancestors are everywhere you look.

For blogs, I write in a WordPress window. My book, and other large projects such as proposals, are conceived in the best word processing program of all time, Scrivener. While I feel that I have barely scratched the surface of all its bells and whistles, it continues to amaze me at what can do. The composition mode is my favorite: a beautiful background of a field in Germany with my writing overlayed on a page – nothing else to distract from the words at hand. It gives such clarity and focus. I'm not sure what I would do without it.

As for the routine, I simply need to write more and on a regular basis, not allowing weeks to slip by with no words on a page. My new job has helped to give me space to explore this, luckily, as time is at a premium in this season of life.

I long for days where I’m not on the front lines of a loved one’s secret alcohol addiction. My soul is already weary from my world turned upside down this spring, and my anger is ebbing into complacent apathy; fighting back only makes things worse. I keep soldiering on, but my pace has slowed and I long for rest that never seems to arrive.

I want to enjoy life by having friends over with tea, using hospitality to do the Lord’s work. This includes crochet projects for the homeless and giving of time, talents, and money to those around me in need.

With this enjoyment, I truly want to experience joy – something my Generlized Anxiety Disorder deprives me of – I obsessively worry about everything – especially the patients I see. I’ve gone days with my stomach in knots, eating only enough to survive, worried sick that I may have hurt someone.

I want to lead a joyfully quiet life, focused on the Lord.

And I look forward to the day it becomes a reality in my little world.

An adjective. An exclamation. An adverb on occasion. I use it for everything. I’ve read the word awesome should only be used to describe God, but I grew up in the 90’s, so my lexicon won’t partition like that.

I have a brown thumb. It is neither green nor black: plants either thrive or die for me. Most die, to be honest – but I have a prayer plant and several succulents still alive and prospering. Fruiting plants are my nemesis: they will make green leaves, flower, and fail to produce fruit.

The Dovecote is a blank slate in terms of landscaping and I am excited to get a design and plants in the ground. I doubt it will be this month due to travel and the heat of a Carolina summer.

I have a small garden of potted plants and so far they are happy. I hope to steward them well enough to break this cycle of dead plants and add them to my landscape design. I transplanted some ground cover (ajuga) and I am making every effort to water and check in on them. The smaller house I hope will draw my attention to them and not get lost in the shuffle.

My marriage, like some plants, has begun to wilt. It’s been a struggle lately, to the point of where we’re arguing even after a good day.

We need to break this cycle and restore the browning leaves and parched soil. I want bountiful green leaves, deeply seated roots, and soil conditions that encourage growth.

I had a complete and total panic attack that hung on for over a week. I officially moved into the new house. I started my second job. My parents came for a long weekend. My marriage suddenly became very difficult.

There were a few nights I managed to steal away and read Galatians. I finished the book, and found that it didn’t touch my heart as it did in those precious new moments as a young Christian. Maybe it was that season of life is so very different from where I am now.

Psalm 130 still rings through my head. And my heart. And resonates in my soul.

Believe what God’s word says: I do. I just didn’t spend the month of June soaking it in like a summer day at the beach as I intended.

Today, like most everyday of my professional life, I wore my work uniform: scrub top and scrub pants, coupled with black socks and my new Dansko shoes. My hair is wrapped in a messy bun, still damp from this morning’s shower. Minimal make up and small button earrings adorn my face.

I started the day asleep in socks and sweatpants.

I’ll end the day with the same, but with a t-shirt, until I crawl into bed.
I wish I was more exciting in the wardrobe department. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to wear cute dresses and full make up on a regular basis.

Then again, showing up in the equivalent of professional pajamas isn’t so bad either.

Awkward
I am really awkward. Physically, mentally, and under certain denominations, spiritually. My body is a pear: small on top, large on the bottom. It doesn’t fit into normal business dresses and I can’t pull off looks where my waist isn’t accented. If only I had boobs, everything would be fine. We won’t discuss my hair. Because I am so individualistic, I don’t run with what the crowd is doing, and so I am the perpetual outsider; it can be quite frustrating when trying to make friends or join a group of people. Politically I’m a centrist who leans slightly left. I don’t swallow American Christianity whole. In fact, I don’t ingest it at all. I don’t blindly support political figures based on their rank, party, or stance on abortion. I don’t fit into any of the round holes cut out for me. I’m a parallelogram peg.

Read mood of room
One of my favorite traits I only recently learned I have, is to read the mood of a room or an individual. The key is not to view anyone through a lens: let them tell you what they are about through their words, body language, eye movement, and facial expression. I can size someone up in moments and then tailor my behavior to mimic or complement theirs.

Inability to wear make up
To go with my awkwardness, wearing make up has also eluded me. I was blessed with my great grandmother’s deep set hooded eyes. They’re basically useless with liquid eyeliner. My fancy almond eyed niece tried to help, but it was futile. I’ve yet to wear eyeshadow or eyeliner like everyone else without looking like a lady of the night or a 5 year old was my make up artist. Make up tutorials backfire. Maybe I just need help. Maybe I should stop trying. Maybe I should always look like I just spent a day at the beach with my tinted moisturizer, powder, mascara, and eyebrow pencil.

Great sense of direction
I could find the way out of a wet paper bag. If I study a map, I can recall my location and navigate. GPS is great, but I don’t need it if I have a few moments with a map. Last week I tried to find a way to my new house from the main drag: I had a decent idea where to go, used my compass, and I found it without much effort. It’s a gift. I’m fun to travel with, too, because sometimes I miss turns and find new roads. If you’re with me, adventure is never far away.

When I was younger, I’d have written a soliloquy about this, covering the chasms of emotion and trying to hurt them with my words as much as they hurt me. Having grown up a bit and moved on, that is no longer the case. I know exactly what I’d say:

“How are you?”

I mean this not as the common American greeting; I’d want to know where they were in life. What people, events, and experiences shaped them since we last spoke over a decade ago? I’d want to know how they really are; without the facade of social media or a monotone “Fine” which is what I got the one time I asked an ex how they were. I would want to dig deep into the condition of their soul, and yet stay detached as an outside observer.

I don’t believe I’ll ever get the chance to ask, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I could. Chances are, their memory of me is so dim, it may not even register anymore.